


case number 564

by eating_custardinbed



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual Greg House, Bisexual James Wilson, Concerned Gregory House, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Illness, Long, Love Confessions, M/M, Multiple chapters, Mutual Pining, Oblivious, POV Gregory House, POV Third Person, Whump, before that it can easily be read as gen, i am aware the title is awful i was struggling okay, it only gets slash-y in later chapters, like the slash will start in c8, most of this can be read as gen or slash, welcome to 'me torturing wilson because i love him' p2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-22 22:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30045816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eating_custardinbed/pseuds/eating_custardinbed
Summary: something's wrong with wilson. house wants to know what
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 27
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallo all and welcome back to me torturing Wilson because I love him part 2!! This is gonna be a slightly longer fic (maybe) and it plays out as more of an actual case, with Hilson feels thrown in there for fun! I really hope you all enjoy this fic (please leave comments and kudos if you do, I love getting feedback!) and remember: pay attention! I’d love to hear all of yours’ theories about what’s going on lol

In retrospect, the whole affair started with a rather dull and common occurrence. 

They had been sharing the condo for a good few months now, making the fact they’d only just furnished it a bit of an embarrassment. House didn’t really care: he would have been content to stay with the couch, the flatscreen and nothing else for the rest of the time they were there, but he knew Wilson was prissy and it was what his mother referred to as a _“teaching moment”,_ so he seized it with two hands and they now had a professionally furnished condo. Oh, and the organ. 

House _loved_ the organ. When he’d told Wilson to find one thing for the apartment that said something about him, he’d been expecting another Amber shrine, maybe some sappy gifts from cancer kids. Instead he (not they: he knew from experience that Wilson couldn’t play for the life of him) had gotten an organ, one he’d had his eye on for ages and knew wasn’t exactly cheap. Actually that’s where he was when it all started, absent-mindedly playing the tune to an old hymn he remembered from all the years his parents dragged him to church. It all started when Wilson dragged himself into the living room, sat down heavily on the couch and let out a low groan. 

House was familiar with the tone of the groan, both as a doctor and as a patient. It was a groan of pain, no doubt about it. Immediately he assumed that Wilson just had a headache, and was trying that annoying _‘pick-up-on-my-cues’_ thing he’d clearly got from some website. 

“If you didn’t want to play the organ, you shouldn’t have _bought_ the organ,” he said without turning around. 

“I haven’t got a headache, House,” Wilson replied. His voice was quiet and strained, and that’s what made House stop playing and turn around. 

Wilson wasn’t so much as sat on the couch as slumped on it. His face was pale and drawn, his normally perfect hair looking strangely limp and somehow not quite as vibrant as normal. He seemed to have an almost pinched expression. He had one arm curled around his stomach. 

“If you’re sick, don’t spread your germs all over the couch,” House said. Wilson rolled his eyes, but the diagnostician didn’t miss how he winced and his arm tightened a little around his stomach. 

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” the oncologist said, sarcasm lacing his words.

“Hey, who knows what those cancer kiddies are carrying!?” House exclaimed. Wilson rolled his eyes again. “And you’re obviously not fine.”

“It’s just a stomach-ache.”

“A stomach-ache wouldn’t have you sitting on our couch looking like you’re about to pass out.”

“It’s just a stomach bug, alright!?” Wilson snapped. House allowed himself a small smile: he’d trained him well. “I’ll be fine in a couple of days.”

“A couple days?” House said sceptically, arching an eyebrow. “What are your symptoms?”

“No!” Wilson exclaimed. He sat more upright, pointing at House in a warning manner. Then he winced, glancing at his stomach for a moment. “You are _not_ doing this!” 

“You’re _snippy_ ,” House remarked. 

“And you’re annoying. Your point?”

“You don’t normally get snippy when you’re sick.” House shifted himself up from the organ bench, limping over to sit on the opposite end of the sofa from his best friend. “Come on. You’re living with a world-renowned diagnostician, take advantage.”

“Yeah, and you’ll probably tell me I’ve got a rare form of bacteria or some shit,” Wilson grumbled. “It’s a stomach-ache. I’ll take some antacids, drink plenty of fluids, I’ll be okay.”

House regarded his best friend carefully. Something was off, something that was different from every other time Wilson had been sick. They’d known each other for coming up twenty years now and House knew what Wilson was like when he was sick. Grumpy, mopey, maybe a bit irritable but never properly snippy like this. 

“Symptoms,” he said again. Wilson sighed heavily but shifted a little to look at his best friend better. 

“Stomach pains, nausea, a bit of an upset stomach,” he said. “Diagnostically simple and therefore boring. Just leave it, House, alright?”

House grumbled and muttered a little, but nodded. Wilson nodded too as he got up from the couch with a small hiss of pain. The diagnostician watched as he staggered into the kitchen, slightly stooped over from the pain, and looked around a little aimlessly before his phone rang and startled him back to reality. He had a short conversation before shutting his phone, reaching for the coffee pot and promptly throwing up in the sink. 

“If you go to work you’re an idiot,” House said once Wilson had finished spitting out chunks into the sink. Wilson shot the older man a disdainful look, bracing himself against the kitchen counter. 

“My patient’s dying.”

“All your patients are dying.” 

“This one’s dying tonight.”

“What, you sleeping with this one too?” House asked. The next look Wilson gave him was a full-on death glare, and he realised that maybe he’d gone too far. “Look, do you really think you going in and throwing up all over them is gonna help?”

“She’s been my patient for three years!” Wilson exclaimed. “I-I-I can’t just… _leave_ her without a doctor when she’s dying! I’m not--”

Wilson never finished his sentence, because before he could he had to turn and throw up in the sink again. House grimaced a little, but didn’t take his eyes off his friend. “Maybe Miller can cover for me,” Wilson muttered miserably once he’d stopped being sick. He was still leaning against the sink, holding his floppy (but not quite as floppy as normal) hair back with one pale hand. 

“Miller can _definitely_ cover for you,” House said. He forced himself to stand, ignoring his thigh’s complaint and limping over to his best friend. Gingerly he rested the back of his hand on Wilson’s forehead. The oncologist groaned a little. “Miller is a slacker,” he murmured as he tilted Wilson’s head up and gently felt along his glands. 

“She works hard,” Wilson mumbled. He was looking significantly iller now, his skin almost grey in colour. For some reason, House felt a surge of hatred for whatever was doing this to his best friend. 

“Chemo-chic went out of fashion last season, you know,” he instead commented, ever the deflector. Wilson fixed him with a long-suffering exasperated look, but its effect was rather nullified by the bags under his eyes standing prominent against his pale skin and the vomit still clinging to the corner of his mouth. “You’re warm but your glands are normal.” 

“It’s most likely food poisoning,” Wilson said quietly. 

“Nope,” House said, popping the ‘p’. Wilson tilted his head to the side in confusion. “We’ve eaten exactly the same thing for the past month. If it was food poisoning I’d be sick too.”

“It’s sweet you’re concerned,” Wilson said, his voice heavily laced with sarcasm. “But I feel like crap and I’m not in the mood to play your games.” He sighed, forcing himself to stand upright. “I’m going to bed.”

“Fine,” House conceded. “Just let me take one vial of your blood and get the team to test it.”

“House, no!” Wilson yelled as he staggered off down the corridor towards his bedroom. 

“One!” 

“No!” 

Before House could say anything else, Wilson slammed his bedroom door shut. The older doctor sighed to himself, shaking his head. To distract himself, he turned and set about clearing the sink up, and then making a new pot of coffee and putting the ingredients for macadamia nut pancakes that he’d arranged on the side in the hopes Wilson would pick on the signals back into the cupboard. Then he limped out of the kitchen, settled himself on the couch (lying down so Wilson wouldn’t see him until he was right in front, obviously) and waited. 

In the end he only had to wait around twenty minutes. He’d been expecting a good forty-five minutes, but he was hardly surprised when he heard Wilson start to rustle. He promptly closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. Before long he heard Wilson start to patter across the lino, groaning quietly to himself. He waited until Wilson had gathered all of his things, gone past the sofa and let out a sigh of relief when he saw House (apparently) sleeping, and had slipped his key into the lock to sit up and say, 

“You _idiot_.” 

Wilson groaned, hanging his head as House sat up and glared at him. “Get Miller to cover for you. You can’t go in like this.”

“She’s my patient and I told her right at the start I’d be there all the way,” Wilson replied, his voice somewhat angry. “I’m not leaving her alone now.”

“She won’t _be_ alone.”

“Stop being pedantic, House.”

“And you think she’ll manage better if you’re there puking in the corner.”

“I know you don’t get it because you’re an ass to everyone you meet, but some people find the presence of their doctors to be a comforting thing,” Wilson said. He put his hands on his hips as he leaned against the doorframe. He was still pale, House noted. “Anyway I took some antiemetics. I should be good for a few hours.”

There was a moment of silence where the two stared at each other fiercely, as if daring the other to break away. As per usual Wilson was the one who broke the stare with a sigh and a bowing of his head. “I’m going in, House. You can’t stop me,” he said as he started to scuff the toe of his shoe against the floor. 

“I know,” House said. 

“So why--” Wilson started, confused, but House cut him off by getting up and grabbing his cane. 

“Room for one more?”

Wilson rolled his eyes for what felt like the thousandth time that night, but nodded and went to open the door. 

***

House watched Wilson as carefully as he could the whole way to the hospital. Out here under the soft car lights with the streetlamps outside flashing across his face, Wilson looked paler than ever curled in the seat with his cheek pressed against the glass. The oncologist had wanted to drive ( _“It’s my car, House!”_ ) but House had put his foot down ( _“And I don’t want to die because you puke all over the windscreen and crash into the back of a semi!”_ ) and insisted on driving. He could tell his friend was in pain from the way the skin in the corners of his eyes was slightly more tightened than normal. Was it weird that he noticed that? He wasn’t sure, at the time. He tried to keep his eyes on the road, but it was difficult. When they reached a red light he reached into his pocket and pulled out his bottle of ibuprofen, holding it out to Wilson.

“Take one,” he said. 

“Thanks,” Wilson said with a small smile, taking one and swallowing it dry. He grimaced, shaking his head. “Ugh, how do you _do_ that at all the time!?”

“Practice, my dear, practice,” House replied. The two chuckled, and Wilson smiled at his best friend before turning back to the window. 

The hospital was starting to get quiet when they pulled into the parking lot. It was coming up eight in the evening, and most people were starting to go home now. House knew they should be home too: any other department head would have deferred the case to one of their lower-downs and done the paperwork the next morning. Not Wilson. It was what made him such a good doctor, House supposed. He himself wasn’t that sort of doctor, but Wilson was. That’s why patients trusted him. Sometimes House wondered if he’d be better being like that, but then he remembered that patients were idiots and he’d be better off not interacting with them. 

Wilson insisted on heading straight up to his patient’s room. He tried to pawn House off to the ducklings (Taub and Thirteen were both still in finishing up some patient files from the clinic) but the diagnostician was insistent. House knew, deep down, that _something_ was going to happen. He didn’t know what, he didn’t know when, but he knew that something would. 

“Angela, hey,” Wilson said as he slipped into the room. House followed, sliding the door silently shut behind him and standing pressed against the wall. He had learned back when he was a child that it was always safest to be against the wall by a door. Quickest escape if needed. 

The woman in the bed was thin and emaciated-looking. She had no hair left and she looked exhausted. In a way, House felt almost glad for her that she was dying. Maybe at least it would mean some of her suffering was over. 

“Dr Wilson,” she said, making an effort to sit up a little more. The oncologist went over quickly, helping her sit back in the bed. “You look like crap,” she told him once he had done. House couldn’t help but smirk in his corner. 

“I’m okay, don’t worry about me,” Wilson said. “How are you? Are you comfortable?”

After this the two of them shared a lot of emotional codswallop that House did his best to tune out. In fact he had been about to leave and harass Thirteen when he saw Wilson stumble. It was only a small stumble, barely noticeable to anyone but House saw it. He narrowed his eyes, pushing himself off the wall. “Excuse me,” Wilson said, giving Angela a strained smile. “I’ll be back soon.”

On his way out, Wilson grabbed House’s arm. House followed dutifully. As soon as they were outside and the door was closed, Wilson let out a pained cry and wrapped his arms around his middle. This of course attracted the attention of the nurses at their station, who rushed over. House pushed past all of them, but before he could do anything, Wilson had collapsed against the wall and was slowly sliding down it, groaning as he screwed his eyes shut. As quickly and as comfortably as his leg would allow him, House knelt down next to his best friend, slipping into physician mode as he checked his vitals in the most methodical fashion he could force himself too. Wilson was shaking, his arms clamped tightly around his abdomen and his jaw clenched. Unsurprisingly his heart was racing, and he was still warm, House noted, but his breathing (if a little heavy) and airways were secure. As gently as he could with murmured reassurances (something he couldn’t remember doing for a patient, well… _ever_ ), he prised Wilson’s hands away from his abdomen and felt along it. It was hard as a board, and every time House made contact Wilson let out a cry of pain. Slowly, the two looked up to meet each others’ eyes. 

“I think you were right,” Wilson breathed out, his voice strained. “This isn’t just food poisoning.” 

“Really?” House said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. 

“House just shut the fuck up, alright?” Wilson growled. He closed his eyes again, curling further in on himself. “Jesus Christ!”

“Get me some morphine,” House hissed to the nurse closest to him. Terrified, she nodded and ran off. Clearly the flurry of activity and Wilson’s pained cries could be heard through the wall as one of Angela’s family (husband, brother, son? House neither knew nor cared) had slipped out and was watching the scene in shocked silence, one hand over his mouth. “You’re gonna be fine,” House said as he turned back to Wilson. 

“How do you know?” the oncologist managed to force out. 

“I just do,” House said quickly. It was one of things he’d wanted to hear himself, back when the infarction happened. Instead he was labelled a drug seeker, sent along his way and now… well. At any lengths, he knew Wilson definitely wasn’t a drug seeker. 

“He’s bleeding,” the husband/brother/son whispered, forcing House to look up.

“No he isn’t,” House replied with a scathing look. He’d been about to deliver some sarcastic remark when he looked back down and was met with the sight of what was undoubtedly blood running along the linoleum, clearly coming from his best friend. He stopped, taking in a sharp breath. His eyes widened, and he shouted out to the nurse. “And a gurney, stat!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! As always please remember to leave comments and kudos, as they really do motivate me to keep writing! If you have a request, want to ask me something or just want to chat, head over to my tumblr @thatludicrousdisplay and drop me an ask. asks are always welcome, as are comments! 
> 
> stay safe and happy yall xx


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello I’m back again! I wrote this instead of revision because I’m sorry but attachment psychology is dull af. anyway, enjoy this!!

It had taken three hours, almost three cc’s of morphine and a sedative, but Wilson was finally in some semblance of comfort. House had immediately asserted himself as the oncologist’s attending and called his team in, sending them off to run a battery of tests on his best friend. Everything had come back negative so far, which was frustrating for House. His first thought had been a GI infarction (the pain was certainly severe enough), but the angiogram and the ultrasound were clear. Clear ultrasound also ruled out appendicitis. They were still waiting on the results of the blood draws, but for now House had reluctantly bowed to the most likely option and started Wilson on IV antibiotics. They didn’t seem to be having much effect thus far, and House didn’t expect them to have any at all. He wasn’t sure even the worst food poisoning could cause excruciating pain than even morphine could hardly touch and bloody diarrhoea that was ninety-nine percent blood. They hadn’t been able to find the source of the bleed, either, which made House unusually angry. 

Normally House kept his distance from patients. Allowed him to maintain his objectivity, he argued, but really it was because he didn’t exactly  _ do  _ people. This patient, however, was different, because this patient was Wilson. Wilson who he’d bailed out of jail on the night they met, who he’d nearly got permanently fired during Vogler’s reign of terror, who he’d nearly sent to jail  _ again  _ during the whole Tritter nonsense. They’d known each other nearly two decades and House couldn’t bring himself to maintain his distance. So he sat in Wilson’s room, put feet up on the bed and watched reruns of Golden Girls on the television. 

Wilson woke slowly from the sedative, but House noticed every tiny movement he made. Eventually the oncologist yawned, scrunching his nose up in the way that House knew he only did when he was just waking up. 

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” House said as Wilson’s soft brown eyes opened. 

“Don’t you mean evening?” Wilson replied. His voice was gruff, but he sounded less in pain than before. There was a small smile on his face. 

“No, I mean morning,” House said. He turned the clock on the side towards his friend, who sat up a little and squinted at it. “It’s past midnight.”

“Don’t feed the Gremlins,” Wilson remarked. House allowed himself a small smile at that. 

“How’s the pain?” he asked. 

“Still there,” Wilson said with a grimace. House reached forward to up the morphine drip, but Wilson stopped him by gently grabbing his wrist. “But manageable. I’m fine.”

“You can drop the  _ high-and-mighty  _ act, you’re sitting in a hospital bed,” the diagnostician said. 

“I’m guessing you muscled every other doctor out the way to make sure you’re my attending?”

“Thwacked them in the shins with my cane.”

Wilson chuckled, shaking his head as he shifted up onto his elbows. House impulsively reached over and hooked his arms under Wilson’s armpits, helping him sit up. 

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” Wilson asked quietly after a moment. 

“Ruled out GI infarct and appendicitis,” House replied. “Still waiting for the bloodwork to come back and you’re booked in for an MRI.”

“Full body?”

“Full body,” House confirmed with a grimace. He  _ really  _ hated full-body scans, as his team, Wilson, Cuddy, the radiology department and the lunch lady all knew. “Abdominal angio was clean but we can’t be too careful.” 

“You thinking cancer?”

“Not sure. Taub suggested it but Taub’s an idiot.”

“It’s a valid theory,” Wilson said evenly. He reached forward, swiping House’s coffee from the side and taking a gulp. “Jesus, I’m tired.”

“Because the sedative’s still wearing off, idiot,” House told him, taking his coffee back with a glare. “If you’re thirsty, drink water.”

“This is all… backwards,” Wilson remarked after a moment. House gave him a puzzled look and he laughed, looking up at the ceiling for a moment. “Me in the hospital bed and you lecturing me on looking after myself. Makes a nice change.”

“Don’t get used to it,” House grumbled. 

“Might have to if it turns out to be cancer,” Wilson said. “Have you consulted an oncologist yet?”

“The oncologist I usually consult isn’t picking up my calls,” House drawled. Wilson couldn’t help but laugh. “Maybe he’s mad at me?” Wilson grinned at his best friend, and House quickly smiled back. “Brown’s the only one on call and you know we don’t get on.”

“Because you threw his phone off your balcony!” Wilson exclaimed. He winced, putting his arm back over his stomach. Instantly House snapped out of friend mode and leaned forward, checking Wilson over. “I’m fine, I’m fine, it was just a little twinge.”

“Forgive me if I don’t exactly trust you right now,” House said. “I told you coming in was a bad idea.”

“What, you’d rather I’d collapsed at home?”

“I’m  _ saying  _ you probably wouldn’t have collapsed at all if you hadn’t insisted on coming in.”

“How’s Angela?” Wilson asked, swiftly changing the subject. House narrowed his eyes, but allowed it.

“Don’t know,” he said. “None of the family nor nurses have been in.”

“Was Thomas okay?” Wilson asked anxiously. 

“Thomas?”

“The guy standing at the door.”

“Dunno.” House shrugged, looking away to the side.

“I should go and talk to him,” Wilson murmured. He seemed to be talking to himself more than House now, and the diagnostician’s gaze sharpened onto it. 

“Later,” he said. Wilson didn’t reply: he wasn’t even looking at House anymore, instead staring straight ahead towards the door. “Wilson?” House said, making sure to make his voice as clear as possible. He took his legs from the bed. Wilson was fumbling with his IV, mumbling something House couldn’t quite hear under his breath. Then, much to House’s shock, he started to try and get out of the bed. “Hey Wilson, c’mon, this isn’t funny,” House said as he stood, trying (but failing) to keep the concern out of his voice. “C’mon, get back into bed.”

A very dirty thought jumped into his head but he chose to ignore it.

“Need to to talk to them,” Wilson murmured. 

“You can talk to them  _ later,  _ when you’re not got morphine coursing through your system,” House said a little distractedly as he tried to grab his friend. Wilson was too quick for him though, and he stared to make his way towards the door. “Or when you’re not about to pull your  _ fucking IV—  _ shit!”

He’d been too slow and his cane had been too far away, and before he’d been able to stop him Wilson had gone too far and the IV tube had run out of material to give. The combination of Wilson’s fussing loosening the tape around it and him jerking his arm in just the right way had resulted in the IV pole toppling over with a loud  _ crash  _ and the needle ripping out of the oncologist’s arm. “You  _ idiot _ !” House cried as he rushed over, grabbing a dressing from the side. He took Wilson’s wrist in his fingers, pulling his arm towards him and pressing the dressing against the ragged cut. Blood was dripping down Wilson’s pale skin onto the floor. “What the hell were you thinking!?” House scolded as he swiped at the dripping blood, lifting the dressing tenderly to check the cut. Nasty-looking, but it would heal. Wilson was staring at his arm, his eyes glassed over. He didn’t seem to be registering anything House was saying to him. “Wilson! Are you even listening to me!?”

“What?” Wilson said as his head snapped up. He looked at House’s worried face, then to the IV pole lying on the floor and finally his bleeding arm. His face paled considerably. “How did I get here?”

“You don’t remember?” House asked. Wilson shook his head. After a moment, he groaned and put his hand to his head. 

“I-I think I need to sit down,” he mumbled. Before the two could move, though, he stumbled backwards and his legs buckled beneath him, sending both him and House (who was still holding the dressing over the bleeding wound) tumbling to the floor. 

“What’s going on?” House said urgently as he got to his knees and shifted closer to Wilson, holding his eyelid open and flashing his penlight in them. Wilson groaned as his head bobbed. “Wilson, this is important!”

“Dizzy,” the oncologist gasped. “Diplopia.”

_ Double vision,  _ House quickly translated in his head as he tilted Wilson’s head gently up, trying to keep his friend awake. As he felt the cloth he was still holding to Wilson’s cut start to get wet with blood, he had a sudden idea.  _ Sorry,  _ he found himself thinking before he glanced away and pressed down hard on the cut. 

Wilson howled in pain, and a weird feeling cut through House’s stomach. 

“Sorry,” he muttered. “But I have to keep you awake, okay?”

“Okay,” Wilson said. 

“Any more pain?”

“Only in my arm.”

“Ripping out an IV will do that.”

“Did I really do that on purpose?” Wilson asked, sounding vaguely perplexed. 

“Not really,” House said. Wilson fixed him with a look, and House found himself saying, “You started spouting off about needing to talking to your patient’s family. Didn’t seem to be able to hear me, just started walking off. You ripped your IV out before I could stop you going any further.” 

“I’m guessing that’s why the pole’s on the floor,” Wilson said. “House, I’m so confused.”

“It might still be the sedative…” House said, but his scepticism was obvious. 

“You think it’s a new symptom?” Wilson said. House looked away to the side, but nodded. Wilson groaned, leaning his head back. “What do you think is wrong with me?” he asked quietly. 

There was a beat. 

“I have no idea,” House said gravely. 

Wilson looked up the ceiling, and tried to ignore the blood running down his arm and the dread settling in his stomach. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thankyou for reading!! I really hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and remember to subscribe so you can stay tuned to all my updates!! please considering leaving a comment if you enjoyed it, they really do make me so happy!! but you don’t have to you don’t want to. head over to my tumblr @thatludicrousdisplay if you want to request anything from me!!
> 
> stay safe and happy, y’all xx


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hallo all!!! i hope you enjoy this chapter, because it has one of my favourite *ever* scenes i've written for house in it. i honestly laughed so hard when i thought of it. i hope you enjoy this!!

The blood draws came back negative. The full-body MRI revealed nothing of note. In fact, every single test they had done had either come back negative, clean or inconclusive, and it was driving House crazy. The cut on Wilson’s arm from where the IV had ripped out had needed two stitches, which House had administered himself.

“This is a nurse’s job,” Wilson had said as House put in the second stitch and tied the suture off. 

“I don’t trust them,” House had murmured in response. 

Right now, though, he wasn’t with Wilson. Cuddy had appeared at around two a.m (during the full body scan) with a sleepy Rachel on her hip and an even sleepier Lucas by her side. House, who could hardly manage her during the day let alone when he hadn’t slept for nearly twenty-four hours (his leg had been keeping him up the night before), managed to exchange a few curt words with her before finishing up the scan, making sure Wilson got back to his room safely, keeping him company until he fell asleep…

Okay, so he’d ended up staying in Wilson’s room for a few hours or so whilst his team napped in the doctors’ lounge. He hadn’t meant to, but Wilson looked so lonely and upset that he couldn’t help but sit with him. Luckily the oncologist hadn’t had any more episodes of confusion or dizziness, but he had been complaining that his vision had been a little strange colour-wise. House had dutifully noted this on his whiteboard as soon as he got back to his office (once Wilson had fallen asleep). 

“It _has_ to be environmental,” Foreman said. It was around six a.m now, and the five of them were sitting around the conference room destroying the pastries and coffee that Chase had bought for everybody.

“If it was environmental, House would be sick too,” Chase countered, gesturing with a half-eaten Danish. Flakes of pastry fell from it and landed in the carpet. 

“Could be poliomyelitis,” Taub said. 

“There hasn’t been a case of polio in North America since 1993!” Thirteen exclaimed. 

“It has to be something,” House murmured. The four fellows stopped, turning to their boss. House was standing by the whiteboard, his forehead resting on the corner of the board. His cane was hanging from the table. He raised his head slightly before letting it fall back onto the corner. “Foreman’s right,” he said after a moment as he opened his eyes. Foreman glowered a little at Chase, who glared back at him. “Environmental is the most likely cause.” 

“But you’re not—“ Chase started, but House cut him off. 

“If it _is_ environmental then I could go down next. We need to know what we’re dealing with.” He sighed, pushing himself off of the whiteboard and grabbing his cane. “Wombat, Lesbian, you’re with me checking out the condo. Little and Large, rerun the blood tests. Call me when you’re done.” 

With that, he stormed out before anybody could ask any questions, leaving Chase and Thirteen to scurry off behind him, and Foreman and Taub standing in the office alone. 

***

“Nice place,” Chase said with a low whistle as House unlocked the door to the condo. The diagnostician rolled his eyes, ushering the two into the apartment and closing the door behind him. 

“Did you and Wilson furnish this?” Thirteen asked as she looked around with wide eyes, her voice shocked. 

“Decorator,” House said shortly. “You’re not here to gawk at the furnishings. Bedrooms are down the hall, Wilson’s is the first door on the right.” 

“He’s grumpy,” Chase muttered as he and Thirteen watched House stalk down the corridor away from them. A moment later the door slammed with considerable force, and the two of them winced. 

“It’s understandable,” Thirteen said with a shrug, striding across the room to examine the kitchen. Chase gave her a strange look. “What? Wouldn’t you be just a little bit upset if your best friend of twenty years who you’ve been _living_ with for the better part of a year was in hospital with some mystery illness?”

“Well yeah, but this is _House_ ,” Chase said. He fixed Thirteen with a look as he opened the fridge and peered into it. “Wow, they actually have food.”

“Nothing to do with House, I bet,” Thirteen replied. “And what do you mean _‘this is House’_?”

“He doesn’t care about people,” Chase said simply. He glanced back quickly before turning back to Thirteen. He snapped a glove on. 

“Sure he does,” Thirteen said. Chase gave her such a look then that she couldn’t help but laugh. “Come on! You’ve seen him around Wilson, right!?” 

“They’re not gay.”

“Shut up Chase. What does that matter?”

“Well it kind of _does_.” 

“Look, House is a disaster bisexual if I’ve ever seen one. I don’t know what Wilson’s deal is but—“

“How did you know!?”

The two jumped. Slowly, dread in their stomachs, they turned to look to where House’s voice had come from. As soon as they clapped eyes on their boss, Thirteen snorted with laughter and put her hand over her mouth, and Chase couldn’t help but grin. 

House was lounging against the doorframe, his good leg bent at the knee and his foot resting on the frame (an action he knew was probably going to result in mud getting on the white trim and pissing Wilson off to high hell). He had his head thrown back, his arm resting in his forehead in a very dramatic way. He had three brightly coloured feather boas wound around his neck (pink, purple and blue respectively) and a large pair of sunglasses on. 

“Yo-you’re bi?” Chase stammered. 

“What gave it away?” House said with a smirk. He switched to what the two fellows could only describe as a _drag drawl_ as he said, “I’m an old queen, darling.”

“Does Wilson know?” Thirteen asked. 

“Known since the day we met.”

“How come?”

“I asked him out.”

Thirteen chuckled again, shaking her head as she looked down. That was very… well, it was very _House_ . “Before you ask, no, I _don’t_ know what Wilson’s “deal” is,” House said. His tone had changed now, and the two shot each other a worried look. “But if you don’t hurry up taking the samples his deal won’t matter, because he’ll be _dead_.”

Pushing himself off the wall, House threw the end of the pink feather boa over his shoulder and limped over to the organ. Soon after, the sound of the opening number of _A Chorus Line_ filled the apartment. Thirteen allowed herself a small smile before throwing a specimen tub at Chase, snapping a pair of gloves on and setting around bagging all of the food in the fridge. 

***

They arrived back at the hospital just after eight a.m, almost exactly twelve hours after all this had started, House thought with a sour taste in his mouth. Chase and Thirteen were arguing in the back of the car about whether anybody would _really_ believe that they’d seen the infallible Dr House in feather boas. House didn’t have the heart to tell them that they would be believed rather readily, as he’d shown up to/crashed a PPTH Christmas party that Wilson had been stupid enough to tell him the date and time of with Stacy on his arm, both of them wrapped in feather boas. That had been the last Christmas he’d had before the infarction. He’d spent every Christmas since either miserable and alone, or with Wilson and slightly less miserable. 

He bypassed Foreman and Taub in the lobby (the results of the blood test were either negative or inconclusive, if they’d been positive for anything he would have had numerous calls and a flurry of text messages) and managed to slip past the clinic before Cuddy realised he’d even arrived. He sped towards the elevator, managing to catch it just before the doors closed. He slipped inside, letting out a quiet sigh and tilting his head up as the doors slid shut. 

He’d always known that his team was going to find out about his sexuality at some point. He’d been planning on telling them, eventually. He’d always reasoned with himself if he ever got a boyfriend he’d watch them squirm and puzzle over things for a few weeks, and then he would put them out of their misery and tell them. Thing was, he’d not even managed to get any more friends since getting his team. Enemies, sure, he’d made plenty of those. But friends? If he was being entirely honest, he wasn’t sure if he’d made any friends since meeting Wilson. 

In a split second all of his thoughts were sharpened on Wilson. Symptoms and theories swam round his head, but he knew none of them were right. He hated to admit it, but he was utterly lost with the whole case. The whiteboard, the symptoms written on it, flashed past, but he didn’t seem to be able grasp it.

As the elevator doors opened he shook his head, limping out into the corridor. The answer would come to him, eventually. It always did. Stopping at the nurse’s station, he shifted his bag further onto his shoulder as he swiped Wilson’s file off the side. A quick scan of it reassured him that nothing of too much note had happened in the two hours he’d been away, other than the antiemetic wearing off. House winced internally. He’d told the nurses not to administer any more until he’d got there and been able to collect a proper sample. Sighing to himself and looking up to a God he didn’t believe in for a moment, he steeled himself and headed down the corridor into Wilson’s room. 

“You’re an ass,” Wilson growled at him as soon as he entered the room. The oncologist was hunched up in bed, clutching an emesis basin to his chest with trembling hands. There were tissues strewn over the bed and table, as well as an open bottle of water. 

“You know as well as I do that we need a proper sample,” House said, bypassing any of the inane formalities that he would have usually had to engage in with a patient. 

“You’re still an _ass_.”

“So you’ve puked a couple of times, big deal.”

“I’ve barely stopped puking for an hour!” Wilson exclaimed. As if to prove his point, he immediately gagged and bent his head over the bowl. Nothing came up, though, and he slowly raised his head with a long groan. “House, this is _awful_.”

“One sample,” House said. 

“Yeah, I’ll get right on it,” Wilson said sarcastically, shooting his best friend a glare. That’s why House noticed the next symptom, actually. He’d been looking into Wilson’s eyes, mustering up his best death glare he could manage when he’d noticed the unusual redness in his best friend’s right eye. 

“How long’s your eye been red?” House asked. 

“What?” Wilson said. 

“Your eye. It’s red.”

“It is?”

“No, I’m just telling you it is.” House rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t be saying anything if it wasn’t.”

“I’ve probably just been rubbing it,” Wilson replied a little dismissively. 

“So it’s irritated?” House shot back. 

“Sorry if my eye isn’t exactly my _priority_ right now.” Wilson groaned before putting his head down and throwing up into the bowl. “How am I still throwing up, there’s nothing left in my stomach,” he murmured once he’d stopped. 

House limped over to the medicine caddy, pulling a syringe out. 

“Here,” he said, throwing it over. Wilson caught it, but as soon as the plastic made contact with his skin he cried out, throwing it down. The heart monitor began to ping faster as the oncologist’s face contorted in pain. “Wilson, what--”

“My-my hands,” Wilson stammered. “And my feet too.”

“What about them?” House asked as he came over, trying to take Wilson’s hand to examine it. Wilson pulled away, though. 

“They’re-- ow!” Wilson screwed his face up as he tried to kick the blanket off his feet. House quickly realised what he was trying to do and went over, taking it off for him. He tried to gently take Wilson’s foot to see if there was anything on them, but once again the oncologist pulled sharply away. “House, ow!” 

“I barely touched you,” House said. Wilson, holding his hands out in front of him so they didn’t touch anything, fixed his friend with a panicked look. 

“House, what the _hell_ is going on?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re supposed to!” 

“Well I don’t, okay!?” House yelled. When Wilson looked away, clearly upset, he felt an unfamiliar wave of guilt rush over him. “I’ll figure it out.”

“You better do,” Wilson said. He winced again as another wave of pain crashed through his hands and feet. “Because I don’t know how much of this I can take.”

House chose not to ponder on the implications of this too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thankyou for reading!!! please consider leaving a comment if you can/want to, i'd love to hear if you guys are enjoying this!!! keep your eyes peeled for the next update (which should come tomorrow all bearing well)
> 
> stay safe and happy, y'all xx


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back!!! sorry for no chapter yesterday, but i had to take a practice ACT and then i was working on requests. also sorry this a little shorter than normal, but i promise it picks up a bit after this!! having said all of this, please enjoy this chapter

The pain subsided, eventually and with the aid of more morphine. It added another symptom to the board:  _ painful sensory neuropathy _ . This had led to  _ lower leg weakness _ , which became apparent the second Wilson tried to stand and his legs nearly gave way beneath him. The eye, too, turned out to be another clue:  _ keratitis. _ Over the next few hours the irritation slowly got worse, to the point where by that evening it was watering so badly that Wilson could hardly see out of it. House had got one of the ducklings to put a dressing over it. He’d been making pirate jokes about it ever since, which had got Wilson to smile a little at least.

“Britain has committed a  _ crime  _ by keeping David Attenborough from us for so long,” House remarked. It was mid-afternoon, and House had decided that instead of spending his free time (they were still waiting on some of the test results) doing Clinic Duty like he was supposed to be doing, he was hanging out in Wilson’s room. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be… I don’t know, working?” Wilson asked, ever the stickler for the rules. 

“My  _ best friend  _ is in the hospital,” House gasped, switching on the fake dramatics. Wilson chuckled. “How can I ever be expected to  _ work _ !?”

“Great, even when I’m in a hospital bed I’m enabling you,” Wilson said a little dryly. 

“You’re an enabler, you enable,” House replied. He reached over and swiped the packet of Cheetos from Wilson’s lunch tray. The oncologist, who hadn’t touched any of the food thus far, let him do so without any arguments. “It’s in your DNA.”

“Lucky for you,” Wilson said. House nodded as he held the packet in his teeth and moved his legs up onto the bed, careful to support his bad one. “Your leg. You’re giving it more support than normal.”

“Are you  _ seriously _ asking about my leg?” House asked, sounding almost incredulous as he took the packet out of his mouth. Wilson shifted uncomfortably, fixing his gaze on the television. “Are you kidding?”

“Forget I said anything,” Wilson mumbled. 

“Do you  _ ever  _ worry about yourself?”

“Forget it, House.” 

“Sometimes I wonder what goes through your mind,” House said through a mouthful of Cheetos. Wilson grimaced a little. 

“Chew with your mouth closed,” he said. 

In response, House opened his mouth and showed off the half-chewed Cheetos. 

“You’re disgusting,” Wilson said, but his admonishment was undermined by the fact that he was giggling madly. House smiled at his best friend, allowing himself a small chuckle. 

“I’m fine,” he said quietly. 

“Heard you told your team you’re bi,” Wilson said after a moment. He reached forward and picked up a fry from the lunch tray. 

“Who told you?” House asked, pretending to be horrified. Wilson snorted out a laugh. “Was it Chase? I bet it was Chase.”

“Thirteen, actually,” Wilson replied. “Didn’t believe I actually knew.”

“Remind me to fire her later,” House said grumpily. 

“She meant well.”

“Still, it’s not her news to tell if I  _ hadn’t  _ told you. She should understand that.”

“She’s just excited. This is the most she’s had in common with you since she started working here.”

“Not the point.”

Wilson rolled his eyes. He was still holding the fry, as if he wasn’t quite sure what he was. He was turning it over and over in his fingers. House, of course, didn’t miss this. “Didn't your mother tell you not to play with your food?”

“I’m not really hungry,” Wilson muttered. 

“Not surprised,” House said. 

“What are you thinking, diagnosis-wise?” Wilson asked. House made a slight face, looking at the television. He didn’t really want to share his thoughts until he’d met with his team, shot down all their theories and answered their inevitable questions about his sexuality. “Come on, I know you have an idea.”

“Guillain-Barre,” House said quietly. Wilson blinked a little, looking shocked. Then he nodded. “Gastrointestinal infection caused the vomiting and the nausea, and your body’s immune response has caused the rest of the symptoms.”

“So I’m guessing you’ll want to do a lumbar puncture to confirm?” Wilson asked. House nodded. “Treatment-wise?”

“Plasmapheresis,” the diagnostician replied. “Should be started in a couple hours.”

“Not waiting for confirmation?”

“Guillain-Barre usually takes two weeks to get to this point from the initial infection, I’d rather treat now.” House paused, giving Wilson a strange look. “Why are you asking me all these questions, you know how I work.”

“Just curious,” Wilson muttered before turning onto his side away from House. 

Puzzled, the diagnostician shrugged and turned back to the television. 

***

“Could be Guillain-Barré syndrome?”

House blinked in surprise. He’d been expecting a rather dull differential which ended in him utterly humiliating all of his fellows, but instead they’d hardly all sat down when Foreman suggested this. 

“Did you bug Wilson’s room?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

“It fits,” Taub said. “Initial infection causes the vomiting and nausea, body’s immune system goes into overdrive and damages—“

“Yeah, yeah, we get it,” House snapped, glaring at his team. They all sat back, looking suitably subdued. He sighed, looking down at the floor. “Start plasmapheresis and do a lumbar puncture to confirm.” 

The team nodded, all of them scuttling quickly out of the office without any more questions. House, who had been expecting rather a longer meeting, watched them go with a vaguely confused look on his face. He sighed again, looking over to the whiteboard with the symptoms and potential diagnoses.  _ Guillain-Barre syndrome  _ was underlined and circled. 

As his leg gave a painful twinge, he limped over to the coffee pot and set about pouring himself a cup. It was coming up on two days now since the initial symptoms, and he was no closer to solving the case. Guillain-Barre was the only thing that seemed to fit, but all of the blood draws and the samples they’d taken had been negative for any sort of infection. It didn’t sit well with him, not at all, but he had to do  _ something _ . Wilson was only getting worse, and he was scared of what would happen if he didn’t do something. 

“Heard you’re thinking Guillain-Barre,” a far-too familiar female voice said behind him. Biting back a groan, he took a gulp of coffee before turning around. Cuddy was leaning against the office door, her arms crossed over her chest and a strange sort of look on her face House couldn’t quite identify. 

“Only thing that fits the most recent symptoms,” he muttered, gesturing to the board as he limped back over to the table and took a seat at it. Cuddy shut the door, coming further into the room. 

“It’s a good prognosis,” she offered. 

“But a  _ bad  _ diagnosis,” House said. He sighed heavily, rubbing his fingers along his forehead. “If it was Guillain-Barre there would have been  _ some  _ sign of infection in one of the blood draws.”

“You know sometimes these things have atypical presentations,” she said. She sat down in the seat to the right of him. “With plasmapheresis he should be fine.”

“I know,” House shot back. 

“Look, if you want to drop the case--”

“Why would I drop this case?”

“No-one will blame you,” Cuddy finished calmly, as if he hadn’t said anything. 

“I’m the best damn doctor in the hospital. If anybody’s going to figure this out it’ll be me.”

“It’s just, I know you two are close, and--”

“He’s just another patient, it’s nothing more than that.”

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Cuddy stopped, giving him something halfway between a disgusted and a sympathetic look. They stared at each other, House almost daring her to look away. She wasn’t like Wilson, though, and she held his gaze. 

“Well, if you think you can manage it…” she said sceptically.

“I can,” he bit back. They continued to glare at each other for another few moments or so, before House couldn’t take it anymore and looked away. 

“Okay,” she said. House didn’t watch as she got up and left the office, closing the door behind her. 

_ Please let it be Guillain-Barre,  _ he found himself desperately thinking as he stared at the whiteboard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really hope you enjoyed this chapter!!!! if you did, please consider leaving a comment telling me your thoughts?? they really do make me so happy :) also, if you want to request something or just ask me something, head over to my tumblr @thatludicrousdisplay and drop me an ask! i'll do my best to get back to everybody in a timely fashion. expect the next chapter sometime soon!
> 
> stay safe and happy, y'all xx


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait for this!! I needed to take the weekend to just recover from another week of in-person school lol. this chapter is short again, but I promise promise promise it’s going to pick up soon (see: c7 and c8). for now, please enjoy this, and keep your eyes peeled for the next update!

The next two days were a waiting game. There was a back-up in the labs, and since treatment had already been started Wilson’s lumbar puncture results were bumped down towards the bottom of the list. House had promptly yelled at any and all lab techs he could find, until Wilson told him to stop at least. The plasmapheresis, as of yet, didn’t seem to have had much of an effect. Not only that, but they’d finally managed to get the results of the tests of the samples taken from the condo and they had revealed nothing unusual. 

It was driving House crazy, and  _ Lord  _ did everybody know about it. 

House had been in a bad mood for the whole two days since diagnosing Guillain-Barre. Whilst Cuddy was normally desperate to get him in the clinic, she was doing everything in her power to keep him  _ out  _ of there in order to keep the hospital’s lawsuit number down. The nurses were doing their best to avoid him when possible. His team had taken to playing rock-paper-scissors to see who had to go and relay the latest negative test result to their boss. 

In fact, the only time House was anywhere close to bearable was when he was in Wilson’s room. This knowledge had travelled quickly around the hospital, and before long Wilson found himself receiving many visitors who needed to tell House something without the fear of him biting their head off. 

“Are you really being that bad with everyone?” Wilson asked as the sixth nurse of the day traipsed out of the room. House shrugged non-committedly from where he was playing on his Gameboy in the corner. “House! Turn the game off and listen to me for a minute.”

“But  _ Mom _ !” House groaned. He did put the game down, though. “I don’t know.”

“Have you not noticed that nobody’s talking to you if you’re not in here?”

“Honestly, I’ve been enjoying it too much to wonder about it.”

Wilson chuckled, shaking his head.

“How much longer on this session?” he asked, jerking his head towards the plasmapheresis machine. House glanced up at the clock.

“Ten minutes.”

Wilson sighed, throwing his head back against the pillow and looking up at the ceiling.

“I hate this,” he mumbled. 

“They do say doctors make the worst patients,” House replied distractedly as he picked his Gameboy back up. “How’s the sensitivity?”

“No different,” the oncologist said. House looked up momentarily from his game. 

“What, not at all?” Wilson shook his head. House sighed. “Hurry up and take to the treatment.” 

Wilson rolled his eyes, and the two fell into a comfortable quiet, the oncologist watching the television in the corner and House playing his game. 

“Thomas came by earlier,” Wilson said quietly during an ad break once House had stopped playing his game. 

“Who?” the diagnostician asked. Wilson rolled his eyes again, something House had been getting far too used to over the last few days. 

“Angela’s husband.”

“Angela?”

“The patient!” The oncologist sighed, giving his best friend evil eyes. Then his face softened a little. “She died last night.”

“You can’t save ‘em all,” House remarked. Wilson gave him a look then, and he looked down at the floor, feeling a little guilty. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Wilson said. “Guess you’re right, anyway.” He sighed a little, looking to the side. “Three years ago, she came into the clinic complaining she was more tired than normal. That was it, just tired. I found a nodule, biopsy confirmed lymphoma…” The oncologist trailed off, chuckling mirthlessly. House was watching him carefully. “She was supposed to live. The odds were great, she seemed to be responding to chemo and then… it came back.” Wilson looked back to his best friend. “Four kids, a good job, a husband who loves her and she’s dead. How is that fair?”

“It’s not,” House replied. Wilson gave him a strange look, as if he’d been expecting a different answer to this. “But it’s not your fault.”

“How—“ Wilson started, but House cut him off. 

“You did everything right. Caught it early, gave the right treatment and she  _ still  _ died. Life sucks.” He fixed him with a look. “Doesn’t make the sucky things your fault.”

“Thanks, House,” Wilson said with a soft smile. House half-returned this, a weird feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. 

The diagnostician reluctantly left once the plasmapheresis treatment session was over. As much as he hated it, he did sometimes have to do the boring paperwork-y parts of his job and that meant hours sat at a desk trying not to think about how much his leg was hurting whilst writing up a million and one reports (all of the ducklings were conveniently “busy” with clinic duty). 

Sitting there, staring at the pile of paperwork on his desk for the second hour in a row, all House could think about was Wilson. It wasn’t right, them being this way around. Wilson was the dependable one, the one that trailed behind and apologised to people for his behaviour and lectured him on eating right and looking after himself and not leaving empty bowls in the sink to go mouldy (well, that was a new one: apparently the excuse “I want to grow a new type of mould never before seen by humanity” is  _ not  _ one that will get you out of doing the dishes). Wilson wasn’t supposed to be in a hospital bed. It wasn’t  _ right.  _

Sighing, House got up and limped around to sit on the end of the desk, looking at the whiteboard. The symptoms and words  _ Guillain-Barre syndrome  _ in his scruffy handwriting stared back at him. 

“Treatment should have taken by now…” he murmured to himself as he scanned the board one more time. There was something he was missing, he knew if. Even if it was the tiniest little thing, he knew he was missing it. He also knew that if he didn’t find it, it could cost Wilson his life, and he couldn’t have that on his conscience. 

“House,” Thirteen said as she came into the office, making the diagnostician look up. When he did, she saw she didn’t look apprehensive like she had done every other time she’d visited for the past two days, or even remotely calm. She looked rattled. At that he felt his heart jump to his throat, but managed to keep it off his face. “There’s something wrong.”

He leapt up as quickly as his leg would allow, grabbing his cane and following her out of the office. She was silent the whole walk, glancing occasionally back at him. He clenched his teeth in an attempt to calm himself down. Unsurprisingly it didn’t work. 

They came to a halt outside of Wilson’s room. Thirteen moved to stand by the window before beckoning him over. He joined her, intrigued, and the two of them looked through. The blinds were open, revealing Wilson sitting in the bed. From out here House couldn’t help but note how ill he looked, his skin a pale grey which only made the white and pale blue of the hospital bed stand out even more. Other than that, he looked fairly normal, almost bored House would have said.

“What—“ he started to say, but Thirteen shushed him.

“Wait a second.” They did so, and then she jabbed purposefully at the window. “There.” 

House peered through the window. Sure enough, Wilson was still staring up at the telly, but now his eyes appeared to be unfocused and his mouth was moving just the tiniest bit, like he was trying to mouth along to a song but didn’t quite know the words.

“Absence seizures,” he said, turning away from the window.

“He’s been having them every five minutes for the last half an hour,” Thirteen said. 

“And you didn’t think to come and tell me earlier!?”

“I wanted to be sure. For all I know he could have zoned out for a minute.”

“Sure. You sure you’re a doctor?”

Thirteen rolled her eyes at him, and he rolled his eyes back. “Do an EEG to confirm, then start anticonvulsants so Wonder Boy doesn’t fry his brain.”

“Too late,” Thirteen murmured, and before House could ask her what was happening she was rushing into Wilson’s room. 

He wanted to follow her, he did, but he seemed to completely freeze. His eyes flicked over to the window, and widened when they saw his best friend having a full-blown seizure. He wanted to look away then, but he couldn’t force his eyes to move. All he could do was stand there, helpless, as Thirteen and a nurse tried to stop his best friend from swallowing his own tongue or hurting himself by falling out of the bed. “House!” Thirteen called, bringing him back to himself. 

“It’s not Guillain-Barre,” House called back. 

Before everything got any worse, he turned on his heel and limped away, trying his very best to get the vision of what he’d just seen out of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading. I really hope you enjoyed this, and if you did please consider leaving a comment?? you don’t have to but I really do love them, and I’ll certainly endeavour to reply to all of them. anyhow, please keep an eye for the next chapter, which should be out soon
> 
> stay safe and happy, yall xx


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